


The Red Favor

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 2, After Dissent but before the Arishok, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3976231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again Garrett Hawke proves that he is terrible at gift-giving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Favor

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this lore tidbit I found about the Amell family's red favors from The World of Thedas (http://flutiebear.tumblr.com/post/119282129293/some-context-on-those-red-favors-from-the-world) and the subsequent conversation it sparked.

"I've got something for you," Garrett says, words that, when uttered in the crowded clinic, usually mean he has gone and gotten himself stabbed again. Or worse. Anders turns around and gives Garrett a visual once over, seeking out with practiced efficiency any hidden blood stains or flesh wounds. But he's clean – or, as clean as a Lowtown-smuggler-made-good ever gets. He's whole. And his fist is now stretching toward Anders, waiting, expectant. It's slightly shaking, as if Garrett is very tired.

Anders wipes his hands on a nearby rag, then takes the object in Garrett's hand. "What's this?"

Twin spots of color rise on Garrett's cheekbones. It's a lovely sight, one that Anders has yet to get used to and hopes he never will. Of all the magic coursing his veins, Anders likes best his power to make the mighty Garrett Hawke blush.

"A gift," he says. "I've heard it's customary for lovers," Garrett's voice dips on the word, like an apprentice caught fondling himself in the bath, "to exchange them on occasion."

"So I've heard too," says Anders, unable to deny the smile toying at his lips. Since that night they shared—that wonderful dream from which Anders never wanted to wake—Garrett has been oddly, charmingly bashful, as if they were teenagers again and not two grown men living just barely a step ahead of the lyrium brand. This thing between them is so new, so alive; it crackles like a readied spell, waiting to be cast. Anders hasn't felt this way since—since— Well, not in a long while. And this time around, he plans to hold on to what he has as hard as he can for as long as he can.

For life, Maker willing.

"It's nice, I think." Anders runs a thumb along the soft silk in his hand. It catches on his callouses, pools from his palm like blood. "But what _is_ it?"

"A, um, favor." Garrett's hand drifts to the back of his neck, where he invents an itch and scratches it vigorously. "You know, like knights and maidens and storybooks." He sighs. "It all seemed much more romantic in my head."

Anders's fingers close around the silk. He levels Garrett with an even look that belies the flip-flop of his heart against his rib cage. "Are you my maiden then?"

"I could be." White teeth flash against beard. Garrett waggles his eyebrows. "I've already got the skirt."

Anders laughs. He turns his attention back to the scrap of fabric in his hand. "So what am I to do with this favor?"

"You wear it," says Garrett. "It has my family crest on it, you see?" He smooths out part of fabric, ostensibly to show the markings. His fingers brush against Anders's wrist and hover there, gentle, hot. Anders's nethers leap to attention. "You place it round your wrist, crest out, like this. Let the world know that," he swallows, suddenly shy, "Garrett Hawke loves an apostate."

Anders's heart flip flops again. Until he registers exactly what it is Garrett has said.

"No. I can't wear this," he says, fingers clenching the fabric. Now he's angry, though he's not entirely sure why. Only that once again he feels that old rawness, the sting of being teased by what he can't have—and he _has_ Garrett, doesn't he?

Hurt, Garrett jerks his fingers back. "Why not?"

"Because," he huffs, "wearing that would be the beacon that brings Meredith's wrath upon your house. And I live in that house now." Anders tries to smile, to play off this anger as a joke, but by the clench in Garrett's jaw, it's clear he isn't buying it.

"I meant what I said," he says gruffly. "That I would stand beside you, against the Templars, against Meredith. Against the world, if I have to."

"But did you plan to put yourself to the test so soon? Because that's what would happen if I tied this around my wrist. Every Templar in Kirkwall would bang down your door just to drag you to the Gallows, and not you, not I, not even Justice at his worst could stop them." Anders grimaces. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see it happen. No. He _has_ seen it happen. He watched the Templars take the man he loved before. They could do it again. They _would_ do it again. Anders's skin tingles, threatens to crack apart and unleash the lyrium-blue fury simmering beneath.

Garrett grunts, not unlike an annoyed mabari. "Quit glowing and take the damn gift already."

Anders takes a deep, steadying breath, reaching for calm. Quiet. Peace.

"It's romantic, but I'm sorry, I can't," he says softly. Anders closes Garrett's hand over the favor and lays his own gently on top. "I can't put you in danger like that. Men like you and I, we're not characters out of some Orlesian fairy story. We don't get the luxury of wearing our hearts on our sleeves. Maybe if it were another time, another place..." He squeezes Garrett's hand. "But it isn't."

Garrett looks down, fascinated by their joined hands. Anders raises them and presses a small but earnest kiss to Garrett's ragged knuckles, the red silk dangling between them.

That seems to mollify Garrett. He puts the favor down on a nearby examination table with a comfortable, happy exhale and sidles closer to Anders. "One day I'll find the key to your heart," he whispers. "Just wait."

Anders smiles and leans in for a quick kiss. "No need for a key to unlock what's already yours, my love."

Garrett grabs him, pulls him down, mouth hot, hungry. The tension between them evaporates. After what feels like days, Garrett pulls back, dazed.

Anders could get used to that look. He's sure he's looking pretty dopey himself.

"So, uh," says Garrett, clearing his throat, "how's work going?"

"Terrible. If you're so insistent on giving me gifts, hand me that lyrium potion," says Anders, all business. He turns back to his station and washes his hands. "I've got a broken arm to set and a family with dysentery to call on."

"A healer's work is never done, is it?"

Anders smiles. "Not in this city."

He gets back to work.

**

Later that evening, Anders finds the favor again; Philomena has tossed it in with the dressing linens. Despite himself, he picks it up, salvages it like driftwood, and lays it in his small trunk of personal possessions, draping it carefully across a hand-embroidered pillow that still smells of wildflowers.


End file.
